


We Deserve Much Better Than We've Had

by youren0tahero



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, kinda sorta sticking to canon, like my own twist to canon, this is my first snk fic i'm v nervous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youren0tahero/pseuds/youren0tahero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not only would today be the day that humanity finally took a step forward in defeating the Titans, but today was also the day that Jean would finally say those three words to Marco.</p><p>All they had to do was make it through the day."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Deserve Much Better Than We've Had

**Author's Note:**

> First, I really just want to say thanks to my [friend](http://chihiraki.tumblr.com/), because I don't think I would have gotten into SNK if it weren't for her. 
> 
> The title of this fic is lyrics from Cosmo Jarvis' "[Gay Pirates](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dysG12QCdTA)," a song I cannot get through without thinking of jeanmarco.
> 
> This is unbeta'd so I'm sorry for any and all mistakes.

They always found the time to write letters to each other. Even when the world was falling apart around them, amongst all the chaos, Jean had Marco’s letters to look forward to.

Sometimes, Marco slipped the letter into Jean’s jacket pocket without anyone noticing—Jean himself included. Jean likes those letters, they’re like surprise gifts he finds at the end of a hard day when he’s stripping to take a shower at night. Other days, Marco slides the letters under Jean’s door in the morning. Those are the letters Jean loves best. Finding one of the folded slips of paper in front of his door in the morning when he wakes up makes his entire day. He starts his day off on a high; those are the days when Jean feels like nothing is going to bring him down.

Even though Marco has different ways to deliver his letters to Jean, Jean always delivers his letters to Marco the same way. It’s always late at night, once everyone has gone to sleep. He sneaks off toward Marco’s room when no one else will see him, and he makes sure to very _quietly_ tap on the door with “BODT” written on the label in the middle of the door. He’ll look around anxiously, making sure that no one has decided to wake up in the middle of the night and see him standing in front of the freckled boy’s room at such an ungodly hour.

Every time Marco opens the door, he leans against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and a grin on his face. “Jean,” he’d gasp, feigning shock. “What are you doing here?” He’d ask, as if he didn’t already know.

Jean would play along, holding up the folded square of paper in between his fingers. “I have a delivery for you.” And if Jean’s hand lingered longer than necessary when handing Marco the letter, well, so what? Some nights, Jean would stroke Marco’s cheek or push back hair that was falling into his beautifully freckled face before returning to his room. And some nights when Jean was feeling _really_ brave—these nights were rare—after handing Marco his letter, he’d lean forward and press his lips against Marco’s, his right hand curling around the back of his neck and the left coming up to rest on his cheek.

And those nights, those were _Marco’s_ favorites.

* * *

When Jean wakes up one morning, there is a folded sheet on the ground in front of his door. He smiles to himself as he picks the letter up and sits down on his bed, unfolding the piece of paper and begins to read.

_Dear Jean,_

_You’ve only just left, and I know I will see you in the morning, but I already miss you._

_Thank you for staying with me longer than you usually do tonight. I think I like just laying down in bed with you more than the nights when I actually get to kiss you._

_I think this is something that we should do more often._

_I love you,_

_Marco._

Jean’s heart races faster when he reads “ _I love you._ ” He feels his face getting hotter. “ _I love you_.” Suddenly, memories of the first night Marco said those three words come to his mind. It was several weeks before, the first night that Jean actually went  _in_ Marco’s room and laid in bed with him. Jean had laid there with his eyes close, on the verge of falling asleep as Marco ran his fingers through his hair. Jean hummed a sigh of content, nuzzling into the pillow that smelled just like Marco. He could have fell asleep like that, warm from the heat that was radiating off of Marco’s body and calm as he focused on Marco playing with his hair.

Just as Jean was about to fall asleep, the rhythm of Marco’s fingers carding through his hair stopped. He opened his eyes to find Marco staring at him, the hand that was once lulling him to sleep was now being held to Marco’s mouth as he bit his nails nervously. “What’s wrong?” Jean asked, concerned.

“I love you,” Marco blurted out.

Jean’s eyes widened as he sat up in bed, now wide awake. “Marco…”

“I do, Jean,” he began. “I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to try to convince me that I don’t love you but I do, Jean.  _I do_. I love you even though you’re weak because like I said, that’s what makes you strong. I love you even though you act the way you do because you assume that’s how the world sees you, but  _I_  don’t see you that way, Jean. I love you even though you’ll only kiss me when no one else is around. I love you.”

Jean stayed quiet, and they sat there in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. “Say something,” Marco pleaded when the silence became too much for him to bear. “ _Please._ ” He reached out to touch Jean on the shoulder, but Jean pulled away before he got the chance to.

“I have to go,” Jean said, standing up.

“Jean…”

“It’s late, Marco, and I shouldn’t even be in here. I should be in my own room. I have to go.”

And then he left.

* * *

The day after, nothing had changed. Jean still woke up to a letter under his door, he and Marco still stood next to each other in the breakfast line, Marco still held his hand under the table where no one else would see and Marco still smiled at him the way he did before Jean ran out the night before. Nothing was different. It was as if it hadn’t happened.

Then, a couple of nights later when Jean was taking off his jacket to get into the shower a slip of paper fell from his pocket.Jean stood in the bathroom reading the letter as Marco talked about what his squad had done that day, laughing and smiling to himself as he read. Then:

 _How was_ your _day? What did you do while you were off with your squad?_

_I love you,_

_Marco._

Still just as shocked as the first time Marco had said it to him, Jean stood still as the steam from the shower began to fog up the room. His fingers traced over Marco’s handwriting, over the three words that he still couldn’t bring himself to say. He smiled, folding the piece of paper back up to put it in his “special place” where he kept every other letter Marco had ever sent him.

Marco didn’t sign every letter like that, only occasionally. And even though the words still took him by surprise every time Marco said them, Jean would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being reminded of it.

* * *

Jean felt pretty good that morning, Marco’s letter already having made his day better than it was before. He got up, got dressed and went into the dining area to eat breakfast before they set out for the day. That certain day was a big deal. It was the day that humanity might finally score against the Titans. It’s the day they use Eren’s Titan abilities in order to plug up the hole in the wall.

When Jean got into the dining area, he didn’t see Marco waiting in line for him like he usually was. After asking around he learned that Marco set off early with Eren and Armin, which was totally understandable. It was a big day, they needed to leave early, they needed to prepare. As Jean ate breakfast alone and subconsciously reached out beside him for Marco’s hand as he did every morning he realized how much he missed Marco, even if he had just seen him the night before. Jean decided then that today was the day. Not only would today be the day that humanity finally took a step forward in defeating the Titans, but today was also the day that Jean would  _finally_  say those three words to Marco.

All they had to do was make it through the day.

* * *

Jean had to admit, he was scared for a minute there. When Yeager attacked Mikasa, everyone was pretty shocked. After all, if he attacked  _Mikasa_ of all people, who knew  _what_  Eren was going to do? The plan had failed before it had even begun and to top it all off, his 3D maneuvering device was messing up as he was being chased by Titans. The first time Jean had seen Marco all day was when he came to distract the Titans long enough for Jean to get a new 3D maneuvering device. As they flew from building to building, keeping the Titans away from Yeager, Jean would occasionally look over at Marco— _his_ Marco. His Marco who loved him and who he loved back, even if it’s taken him so long to realize it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Marco chuckled when he caught Jean staring at him.

A loud roar echoed throughout the city and in the distance they could see Eren standing up, the boulder above his head as he made his way to the hole in the wall. “Just wait,” Jean said. “You’ll see!” he shouted as him and Marco went separate ways to protect Eren as he made his way to the gate.

* * *

He did it. Yeager did it. Eren plugged the hole in the gate with the huge bolder. Humanity  _finally_ had a victory over the Titans.

The victory came at a cost, however. They suffered heavy casualties that day. All Jean wanted to do was to find Marco. He wanted to find him and kiss him and tell him that  _yes_  he loves him too; he always had ever since he saw the boy’s smile light up his beautifully freckled face. He wanted to tell Marco that he was sorry it had taken him so long to finally admit it. That he was an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

First, they had to clean up the bodies of the squad members that littered the streets.

* * *

Jean wasn't sure how he didn't put the pieces together sooner. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so  _hopeful_  in a world that’s only ever made him feel hopeless?

“Wasn’t Marco on your squad?” Jean had asked Connie as they walked through the streets and tried to identify half eaten bodies.

“Yeah,” Connie answered. “But, the last time I saw him he was trying to save your dumb ass from becoming Titan food.”

Jean remained silent for a long time, fidgeting with the mask that covered his mouth and nose. “Hey,” Connie said as he noticed Jean’s silence. “I’m sure we’ll find him.”

Jean nodded, walking to the next street over to see who he could identify there. Of course they’d find him. Of course they would.

* * *

Days had passed and there was still no sign of Marco. Two days without a letter in his pocket or found under his door. Two days without holding his hand under the table at breakfast and kissing him late at night in his doorway. Jean tried his hardest not to worry about it. After all, there was a lot of work to be done. Maybe Marco, ever so helpful Marco, was still out there helping clean up the streets. Jean didn’t want to think about where else Marco could have been.

Jean found him on the second day. It was hot, and he was  _tired_. He was tired of lining up his fallen comrades in a line every day. He just wanted to lay in bed with Marco and not think about anything for a while. He wanted to feel the rhythm of Marco’s fingers carding through his hair and he wanted to find a letter that said Marco loved him. He wanted Marco to be there so he could finally,  _finally_ , return the sentiment.

Jean almost didn’t recognize Marco when he found him. Half of him was missing, and there was a large bag under Marco’s remaining eye. There was no more life in the brown eye that had once shined. His face was pale, an almost ghostly white when Jean found him. You couldn’t see his freckles anymore, the freckles Jean had loved to make fun of and count and play connect the dots with while they lay in bed together.

Jean could feel his eyes widen as he took in the image of the man he loved, dead and lifeless and  _alone_ on the ground. Was it quick and painless, or was it drawn out and torturous? Did he put up a fight? How long had he been there? How did he die? Where did the other half of him go? Did he call for help? Did he cry out for someone to come and save him, only to be left for dead? And where had Jean been when this happened? Why wasn’t he there to save him?  _Could_ there have been a way for him to save Marco? Why Marco? Why his Marco who surely didn’t deserve it?

These questions and many more were running through Jean’s head. It took him a while to snap out of the shock and realize that a woman was speaking to him. “What’s his name? If you know tell me now,” the woman said firmly. Jean turned to stare at the woman with the clipboard in her hands. He looked from her to Marco, hearing the sound of her voice but unable to make out the words. “There isn’t time to mourn your friend yet. Understand?”

This wasn’t just Jean mourning the loss of his friend, this was Jean mourning the loss of the man he loved. This was Jean losing one of the only people who meant anything to him anymore. This was Jean mourning the piece of him that Marco took with him when he died. After what seemed like forever, Jean finally replied.

“Let’s get back to work,” the woman told him, walking off to get the names of all the other bodies in the street.

That’s all Marco is now, a name on a piece of paper. Soon, all he’ll be known as is one of the many fallen soldiers in the first battle the humans won against the Titans. Jean is afraid that he’ll be one of the people who forget him. He’s afraid he’s going to forget the amount of freckles on his cheeks. He’s scared that he’ll forget the color of Marco’s eyes. Most of all, though, Jean is afraid that he’ll forget the way Marco’s voice sounded when he said his name or when he said that he loved him.

He loved him. Marco loved him and Jean had been too afraid to admit that he loved him, too.

Marco died not knowing that Jean felt the same way.

* * *

When they had finally cleaned up all of the bodies, they set them in piles and burned them.

Jean sat on the ground around the fire, staring into the bright orange light. Marco was in there, among the hundreds of bodies they found. Jean picked up ashes and bones off of the ground. He didn’t even know which ones belonged to Marco anymore. He has nothing left of him now. Jean could feel his eyes water over and become glossy, tears about to fall over and trail down his face.

When he looked up, he saw Marco.

Marco sat down on the ground next to Jean, leaning his head on his shoulder. “It’s sad, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

“M-Marco?”

“I don’t want you to be sad, Jean.”

Jean buried his face in Marco’s dark hair, inhaling his scent and committing it to his memory. He never wants to forget the smell of Marco—the smell of  _home._ The tears finally fall now, dripping from Jean’s face into Marco’s hair. “I love you, Marco,” Jean says into his hair. The sentiment is muffled and very nearly drowned out by Jean’s cries. “I love you,” Jean pulls back and looks Marco in the eyes, squeezing Marco’s freckled hand in his. “I love you,” he says again.

And then Marco smiles at him, his face lighting up and just for a second, Jean feels the hole in his chest is gone. “I know,” he answers. Jean hides his face in the crook of Marco’s neck, repeating the three words over and over until eventually they’re just incomprehensible sobs. “I know you do. I love you, too.”

And when Jean opens his eyes again, Marco is gone.

* * *

Later that night, Jean sneaks out of his room. He takes his time walking down the hall towards the room that was once labeled ‘BODT.’ The sticker is gone now, nothing but sticky residue left in its place. He pushes open the door and goes inside. His clothes are still in there, and his bed is exactly the way he left it. Jean falls onto the bed and inhales the scent of Marco’s pillow. They left everything inside of the room exactly as it was the last time Jean had been in there.

One minute Jean is clutching onto the pillow as if his life is depending on it, his nose buried in it as it begins to get damp from his tears. When the smell of Marco wears off of the pillow, Jean gets mad. This is all he has left of him. A messy bed and a closet full of cadet uniforms that smell like him is all Jean has left of Marco. Without thinking, Jean throws the pillow. Then he throws another, and then he throws a book that had been on Marco’s bed side table. He throws anything he can get his hands on as if that will fix things, as if that will make a difference and bring Marco back.

He screams into one of the pillows, not wanting anyone to wake up and see his nervous breakdown. He screams and screams until his throat is raw and his voice is hoarse. Because,  _why?_  Why had it been Marco? Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Why couldn’t it have been  _him_? Why did anyone have to die at all? Why did the Titans exist? Why didn’t he stay with Marco that day to keep him safe?

Once Jean’s tired himself out from crying and screaming and throwing things in fits of rage he cleans up the room and takes the pillow he had screamed into and lays on the floor. He can’t lie in that bed without Marco. Jean turns on his side, and sees a dark box under the bed. He slides the box out from underneath the bed and opens the lid to find the letters Jean had written to him. Marco kept all of them, from the neatly folded pieces of paper to the ripped half sheets written in a hurry to cafeteria napkins and post-it notes. Marco kept all of them.

Jean gets up off the floor and searches through Marco’s desk for a piece of paper and a pen. He writes Marco a letter, and when he’s done he folds the paper up and places it in the box. He slides the box back underneath the bed and places the pillow back on top of it before walking out of the room.

* * *

_Dear Marco,_

_We deserved much better than we’ve had._

  _Jean_

 


End file.
